


In sickness and in health

by Wrathofscribbles



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-14 04:40:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28914750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrathofscribbles/pseuds/Wrathofscribbles
Summary: It's easy to admire the magic wielded by Glaive and Prince and King alike when you don't know the price they pay for it.Prompto?  Well.  He used to be an admirer himself, until he found himself with a front row seat to the effects kept behind closed doors.
Relationships: Prompto Argentum/Noctis Lucis Caelum
Comments: 12
Kudos: 90





	In sickness and in health

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MysteriousBean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MysteriousBean/gifts).



> Inspired once again by mysteriousbean's wonderful artwork ♥

This is how it happens: Noctis uses his magic.

It's the same old story, the same old routine. He has college and his part-time job and his many grumps and groans about both, his frowny face turning the right way round when Prompto jogs up to him in the courtyard and bumps shoulders with him. Prompto, himself, has never been fond of sacrificing a Friday evening for _anything_ other than sinking into a steaming hot bath and letting the week's stress peel away from his bones, but Noctis hates it even more and misery loves company, right?

Right. So it makes perfect sense to tag along on training sessions and get his ass kicked six ways to Sunday on the regular while Noctis bolts around like a squirrel on crack, Gladio in hot pursuit. Ignis never hesitates to take advantage of his distraction and Prompto never expects otherwise, landing on his back or his elbows with a dagger at his throat more often than not, and his eyes should stay on Ignis and the calm stare leveled at him, he knows, but - _Noctis_. Noctis wielding _magic_. Honest to god magic. Fireballs thrown as casually as coin from his fingertips, lightning lancing across the breadth of his shoulders and down his arms and _exploding_ across the spear he hurls in Gladio's direction, ice on his feet and sweeping across the ground as he dips and spins and _skates_ across it, mist and vapour and taunting laughter as he slips through Gladio's fingers again and again. His eyes gleam red and flash with every spell he weaves and oh, _oh_ , the one he catches Prompto's heart with is the cruelest of all. He doesn't know, not at all, oblivious to _this_ particular power he wields -

And then Ignis is upon him again and Prompto forcibly drags his attention back to the task at hand: defense.

* * *

This is how it happens: Noctis uses his magic _too much_.

Prompto sits this particular session out, already nursing a sprained wrist and in no mood to tweak it further with Ignis' brutal ways. He itches to take photos, to capture the flex of muscle and the sure footing and the wide splay of fingers, to immortalise the momentary flash of _skin_ and the sharp cut of a hipbone whenever Noctis stretches _just_ so and his t-shirt lifts. He wants to catalogue every rise and fall and graceless tumble, the pivots and flips and every time Noctis uses a _wall_ as a launchpad. But he doesn't, he mustn't, it's too high a risk if his camera falls into the wrong hands, and so he tracks it all with just his eyes instead and longs to reach out and catch crystalline shards in the palm of his hand. Will he feel them? Will he bleed on their sharp edges? Or are they soft as petals and fleeting as snowflakes, the briefest kiss on skin?

He curls up beside the cooler and watches the fight unfold, in awe of Noctis holding his own against Ignis and Gladio _both_. But then Noctis comes out of a warp early, _crashes_ out of it as some unseen force smacks him from the ether partway through. He hits the ground hard and skids backward as if kicked, silent as the grave and pale as death and panic has Prompto's heart doing double time as he scrambles over, Ignis and Gladio following suit. He reaches Noct first, feels the heat scalding his skin as he grasps him by the shoulder and turns him. There's no resistance to him as he flops over, seemingly unconscious but no less suffering for it. The furrow of his brows, the tightening around his eyes, the severe line his lips press into. Noct's three tells of silent pain.

"What happened?" he asks around the lump in his throat, and watches as Ignis touches his fingertips to Noct's forehead. A spark between them, a solitary thing, mostly harmless, and yet Ignis might as well have cast a lightning bolt through his skull for how his entire body _jerks._ Ignis sighs.

"He's overworked his magic. Not as frequent an occurrence as it once was, but troublesome all the same." An exchanged glance is all it takes for Gladio to fit his arms behind Noct's shoulders and knees and lift him with no visible sign of strain, no shift to adjust Noct's weight as he strides for the exit. Ignis goes to each of their favoured weapons in turn and dismisses each back to the Armiger with a flick of his wrist, and Prompto - isn't part of this routine, not yet, doesn't know the steps, but makes himself useful anyway by gathering up their bags and slinging them over his shoulder.

"He'll be okay though?"

A _telling_ pause, then: "all who wield magic recover, eventually. Some faster than others."

He later learns Ignis means _"everyone faster than Noctis."_

* * *

This is how it happens: Noctis is still poorly a week later.

He's still weak as a kitten when he lets Prompto into his apartment, hand so tight on the doorframe his knuckles bleed white. He shuffles when he walks, weight pitched into Prompto's side when he offers some support and guides Noctis back to the sofa. He toes his shoes off and kicks them under the table so they're not a tripping hazard, snags a discarded blanket in passing and all but burritos Noctis in it. He shivers now, but not from persistent fever, and Prompto lays down flat and pulls Noctis down too so he can steal whatever body heat he can.

He remembers Ignis's warning of the scarring on Noct's back, so inflamed and angry when his magic is at its most unstable, and forgoes a hug entirely. He hitches his left leg up instead to act as barrier against Noct accidentally rolling onto the floor, and tucks his arm back to rest his head against. He checks Noct's temperature with his free hand - _cold_. Ice, then, chipping away at him from the inside out as fire had burned him most of the week.

 _How's lightning -?_ No. He won't entertain that question. Better to guess at the horror than know its certainty. "How're you feeling?"

Noctis stirs. His hair tickles where it's smooshed under Prompto's chin. He's simultaneously too heavy and too light, as if a warp is _still_ trying to yank him away. Prompto slings an arm over his shoulders for good measure, a physical barrier he hopes will keep his friend grounded. When he eventually speaks, Noct's voice is thin and scratchy, though from _disuse_ or _overuse_ Prompto can't tell. "Like Shiva's - making windchimes out - of my bones."

"Sounds painful."

A puff of breath over his throat. An attempt at a laugh? "It is."

"Rest then, if you can. I've got you."

Noctis obediently lapses into silence, and Prompto pitches his voice low as he talks about his week, about work and college and the goings on he's witnessed in the city, and the current game of cat and mouse he's got going on with Crowe whenever they cross paths. Try as he might, though, he still can't evade her eyes once she has him in her sights. She's got the warping advantage, after all.

He talks until he runs out of words, until Noctis is a more _noticeable_ weight on top of him, drifting in a light doze. And no longer shivering.

* * *

This is how it happens: Noctis suffers, and Prompto's heart breaks.

The aftereffects of lightning hit Noctis almost eight full days after he crashed out of his warp. It's the worst Prompto's ever seen him, confined to his bed and barely moving, for even the slightest twitch sends a lance of agony through the offending limb. He's had to remove all the lightbulbs in the apartment to stop them reacting to Noctis whenever his body rebels and jerks, whenever his back snaps into a painful arch and his mouth forms a gasping plea for mercy. He's pulled the curtains against sunlight and city noise and coaxed a full glass of water and two painkillers down Noct's throat (not that he expects them to do much). He's checked in with Ignis and thanked him for the forewarning of what to expect, and fired off a series of quick messages to Gladio to keep him posted on Noct's condition. He's washed the dishes and rinsed the glasses and set the laundry aside for washing once Noct can stand any noise above a pin dropping.

He's made an effort to be helpful where he can, to lighten the load of - everything - when Noct feels more at himself again. He's _tried_ but -

"I'm alright," Noctis says, so sudden Prompto almost jumps out his skin. He's squinting, face strained and _tired_ and how Prompto wishes he could reach inside Noct's body and quiet its hurt, absorb it all into himself if only to give him a solid hour's respite from it. His feet carry him to the bed of their own accord, body sinking into a crouch without his conscious decision to do so, but it takes him closer to Noctis without jostling him and so - it's right, regardless.

"You look like hell, Noct," he says, brutally honest, hand light as feather where he cups it against Noct's cheek, expecting him to flinch away. But he doesn't. He leans into it instead, as if the contact brings some measure of comfort. _Oh,_ how Prompto's heart _squeezes_.

"I feel it," Noctis replies, eyes shadowed so dark they look bruised, fingers snatching claw-like at the quilt where it's already bunched over his stomach. _Pain_ , and despite it his right arm lifts so he can mirror Prompto's hand on his cheek, thumb tracing the outer curve of his eye socket. "But you're here. Makes it better."

"Noct -"

"A request," he says, cutting Prompto off, voice fading as his strength does, and Prompto leans closer to hear him, to feel his touch just those few seconds longer.

"Anything."

"Kiss me when I'm feeling better."

_What._

"What?" he echoes aloud, but Noct's already gone, into whatever fitful sleep he can manage.

* * *

This is how it happens: Noctis is expectant, amused, his health restored right alongside the colour to his skin, and Prompto hesitates a second too long.

"I thought," Noctis says, the glimmer of mischief in his eyes a secret for Prompto alone, the feel of his body pressed up so close to Prompto's for _his_ knowledge alone, "I told you to kiss me when I was feeling better."

"I - you - you were _sick._ I thought -"

"You thought wrong."

Noctis kisses him, sweet and uncertain despite his tone, and Prompto dares to fist a hand in his hair to keep him close.


End file.
